


One Over The Eight

by killclaudio



Category: SS-GB (TV), SS-GB - Len Deighton
Genre: Drinking to Forget, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pre-Slash, no beta we die like men, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 22:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11114073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killclaudio/pseuds/killclaudio
Summary: Just a little bit of Huth getting drunk.





	One Over The Eight

The whiskey Kellerman had left in his office was decent enough, but lethally strong. The kind that would get you drunk before you even noticed. Huth shoved it all to the back of a cupboard and forgot about it, more concerned with getting phones and filing cabinets and a teleprinter and everything else necessary to do his job. He was more than a match for Kellerman’s temptations. 

In his rooms on Brook Street with the door locked he allowed himself one carefully measured glass of Glenlivet. Alcohol lowered a man’s defences. 

He sat in the only chair and contemplated the work ahead of him. He was juggling spies in the Army, police officers chasing a murderer, chemical calculations going missing, Resistance cells, Colonel Mayhew and his double dealing, and Kellerman and the proof of his treachery that would soon arrive from Berlin… 

Eventually his mind ran out of plans and permutations, and settled irresistibly where it had ended up every night since he’d arrived in London. Archer. 

Huth had requested Archer because he was easily the best detective at Scotland Yard, with a conviction rate that would turn any policeman in Berlin green with envy. The methodical, forensic approach in his reports had led Huth to expect a fussy little man in glasses, fifty year old at least, for surely it took decades to rise to the rank of Superintendent? 

And instead a young Adonis had walked into the warehouse, perfectly turned out in black tie and utterly, utterly beautiful. It was a good thing Huth had been hidden in shadow, for he had drawn an involuntary breath as Archer walked in and he feared his face had betrayed him. For a moment he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from Archer, from the way the harsh overhead lights caught those razor-sharp cheekbones and put highlights in the thick dark hair. Then Sir John had made a comment and he’d come back to himself, focusing once more on the task in hand. 

Still, he was finding it difficult to shake his constant awareness of Archer’s presence. He would walk through the office and inhale the lingering scent of Archer’s aftershave; pass a file across the desk and brush Archer’s fingers; turn around to catch sight of Archer bending forward over a desk. And then there were the sarcastic comments, which only brought out worse sarcasm in Huth, until it felt like they were speaking a language only the two of them could understand. 

Huth’s friendships had withered in the last few years. Most men didn’t feel comfortable going for a quiet drink with a senior intelligence agent, and any SS man who matched Huth’s intellect was a rival. Springer’s scientists were decent sorts who would chat to him occasionally but they had no sense of humour. He had forgotten what it was like to have someone laugh at his jokes. And then he’d looked up from his little speech about the Army officers and their overdressed women to see Archer’s lips curling in a smile he couldn’t quite suppress, and Huth’s breath had caught in his throat. 

He had always had a weakness for unconscious beauty, grace, poise. When Archer stood in the dim light of his office, his expression serious and his eyes dark pools, he looked as though he’d stepped straight out of a Renaissance painting; a Botticelli, or perhaps da Vinci, an angel appearing to the people, so dazzling that they could only gaze at him with astonished and protesting eyes. 

Christ. Was that how easy he was to win over? A little laughter and some pretty brown eyes? He was as bad as all the men he held in such contempt; as bad as Kellerman bragging to his whores about the bribes and giving himself away to one of Huth’s spies; as bad as Röhm and his endless, blatant love affairs. 

He stood and poured a second glass of whiskey, vowing it was his last. It was when you needed it that it became dangerous, and right now Huth desperately needed something to dull the edge of wanting Archer. 

Sentiment lowered a man’s defences. 

Since joining the Sicherheitsdienst, Huth had suffered a number of seduction attempts. Some of them were even perceptive enough to send a man. But he had never been even close to tempted, had never understood the urge that made men sacrifice their careers, their countries, their very lives, for a pretty face. Now he was rapidly revising his opinion. If Archer somehow realised the hold he had over Huth, and had the guile to exploit his advantage, would Huth have the strength to say no? The question frightened him. What would he be willing to sacrifice for a touch, a kiss? And what would Archer be willing to do for his country?

Sober he would have stopped himself there, but two drinks in his self-control was waning. It was impossible to resist the image his brain offered up; Archer in his shirtsleeves, collar open and hair ruffled. Coming up to him late at night in the office, perhaps, when everyone else had gone home. Standing too close as he asked a question, his gravelly voice pitched low so only the two of them could hear. Never shying away from Huth’s gaze the way most men did, looking at him until the intense eye-contact became unbearable and Huth leaned towards him… 

Abruptly Huth stood, jerked back the curtains and hauled the sash window down. The chilly November air was cool on his skin, and brought him back to some semblance of sanity. He was here to get control of the Reich’s deadliest weapon, not fantasize about fucking his staff. There’s wasn’t the slightest hint of a chance, anyway. Archer was sleeping with his secretary. 

He abandoned his whiskey glass on the table and had a cold bath, scrubbing until his skin was raw, then dressed in clean pyjamas and climbed into bed. Lying in the darkness, the faint sounds of night-time London floating through the window, Huth cursed himself for a sentimental fool. Hadn’t Springer warned him against this very thing? But he was still the master of himself. He would not let his emotions overwhelm him. 

His last thought before he fell asleep was that he must never get drunk around Archer. That would be catastrophic.


End file.
